


ad astra

by wastefulpretexts



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Arthur is a hothead, Bottom John, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, I named a horse after a city in Spain, John is lowkey fucked, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Spoilers for chapter 1, Squint and you can see the Hosea/Dutch, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Top Arthur, but they make it work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-02 16:41:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17267672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wastefulpretexts/pseuds/wastefulpretexts
Summary: Arthur may have still been seething with anger, but a small sliver of his conscious reminded him of something he wished he had forgotten.It nagged at the back of his skull, like a fly buzzing anxiously into his ear. That miniscule part of his brain ached and had good reason to.or,Arthur learns to let go when John needs him most.





	1. The Restless

**Author's Note:**

> buckle up, you’re in for... an actually surprisingly angsty but also sort of heartbreaking/heart-melting experience. we don’t see soft arthur a lot, so cherish it. i spent at least 3 days on this chapter and all night trying to get ao3 to cooperate. enjoy, leave kudos, comment. ♡♡

Arthur always prefered scenery over people. As lonely as that sounded, he didn’t think much of it. Pine trees and mountains kept still, for one, unlike the antsy outlaws that roamed around camp like ghosts. Plus, he could always count on the nature as a constant, something that he could rely on to always be there. At least in his lifetime, anyway. Living as a wanted man, life is always changing; drastically. Arthur learned many years ago that while the gang greatly resembles a family, you are expected to keep your demons to yourself.

 

“ _No one can fight the battles for you, my boy_.”

 

The words had slipped off Dutch’s tongue so easily, that Arthur had felt compelled to believe that they were the truth.

Whiskey serves as a remedy for the monsters, probably why saloons never seem to close. Some smoke their monsters away, some sorry souls give into theirs and go insane. Arthur hasn’t quite reached his limit yet, but he might soon enough. He’d prefer a noose over anything else, really.

Skimming through the thick pages of his journal, Arthur glared at his drawings with a critical eye. He never felt as though he could capture the moment right. He thinks it might just be one of those odd things that the brain seems to always do. It doubts itself, insults itself, and never seems satisfied with it’s own efforts. 

Amidst his thoughts, Arthur stumbled upon foreign writing etched into the page roughly. He paused and furrowed his brow, trying to place the handwriting. Each letter was slightly larger than the last and the cursive seemed more like an attempt at connecting the letters without care.

It was John’s without a doubt.

Arthur wanted to feel frustration and anger in the pit of his stomach, he wanted to groan and pout at the thought of John messing with his things, but he didn’t. Instead, warmth bloomed in his chest and his heart adopted an irregular beat. A mental image of John’s childish smile clouded Arthur’s thoughts as he read the sloppy note.

 

_not bad morgan, not bad at all. why didnya show me these before? heres to hopin you aint too mad at me for stealin your journal._

 

John hadn’t capitalized single word, not even Arthur’s name, let alone add apostrophes where they were needed. And Arthur couldn’t get enough of it.

“What a damn fool, that boy,” Arthur murmured to himself quietly. A grin pulled at his lips as he closed the journal and tucked it safely into his satchel.

He lazily struck a match against his boot and then heaved himself up. A thin flame danced atop the match. Arthur took a cigarette in his hand, held it between his pointer and middle finger, then brought the flame to the end of his cigarette. It glowed to life as Arthur brought it up to his lips. He inhaled the smoke, letting it burn in his lungs for a few moments, and then exhaled. The end of the cigarette glowed a deep sunset orange.

He trudged out into the main room of the cabin without much commitment, then paused. Surveying the silent room, his gaze fell on Dutch and Hosea who were staring into the blazing flames of the fireplace. They sat in sturdy wood chairs and the two looked strangely pleased. Only when Arthur focused his gaze did he notice their hands were interwoven. He felt a certain level of comfort in seeing them relaxing with one another for once in a long while. Arthur would go as far as to say he was _glad_ they were together. Dutch had been batting one-hundred since the burning down of Sadie Adler’s estate and Hosea seemed to bring him back down to a calm ten. Figuring they should be left alone, Arthur slipped quickly out of the cabin without much fuss from the creaky door.

The bone-chilling wind hit him like a wall as he brought his worn out hat over his face. The worst thing about the cold was the way it nipped at your skin, making your cheeks and hands burn with dissatisfaction. Arthur hadn’t really taken much of a liking to cold weather, especially when it interfered with Spring.

He supposed he should speak with John, seeing as it would lighten his mood before he went anywhere in the vicinity of Micah and the others. Arthur _despised_ that shell of a man, especially after how he treated Mrs. Adler just a day or two prior. He never understood what Dutch saw in the slug and why Hosea didn’t convince Dutch to give him the boot. ‘Lord knows everyone hates the son of a bitch.

Arthur took another draw from his cigarette. He inhaled the smoke, it whirled around in his lungs, and he blew it out into the cold air. He neared Javier, who was standing guard outside of one of the cabins and clearly not enjoying it. A scowl was plastered on his tired face and he shivered at the passing breeze.

“You alright, Javier?” Arthur asked gruffly, but with honest concern in his voice. Javier looked over at Arthur halfheartedly and sighed, a white cloud escaping his chapped lips.

“To be honest with you, hell no. I’m freezing my _culo_ off,” he replied bitterly. Arthur let out a deep chuckle and gave his friend an apologetic pat on the back.

“I’d take over for ya’, but I need to have a word with Johnny Boy.” Javier laughed at the nickname, seemingly distracting him from the cold for a few moments.

“You seen him?” Arthur asked.

“No, surprisingly, I haven’t seen him in camp. Check in with Abigail, she follows him like a bloodhound,” he offered. The cowboy’s lips thinned into a flat expression. _That bastard sure is hard to find when he wants to be._ Javier gave Arthur a weak smile and a small shrug. Arthur thanked him and turned his heel.

He walked across the camp, the chilling winds playfully grabbing for his hat along the way. Once reaching the cabin, Arthur pushed open the heavy door and let it fall behind him with a bang. The women looked up at him with mixed curiosity and what looked to be fear until they realized it was only Arthur. He didn’t pay too much attention to them and beelined straight for Abigail, who was on the floor. She held Jack in her arms as he started to slip into a light sleep.

“Abigail,” Arthur greeted, tipping his hat over his eyes. She looked up at him and smiled faintly.

“Hello, Arthur. What can I do you for?”

“Have you seen John ‘round camp? I’ve been lookin’ for him.” His question warranted a confused expression to wash over Abigail’s face. Arthur raised his brow expectantly until she came to a realization.

“Didn’t he tell you?” Arthur stayed silent, showing he didn’t understand what she was talking about. Abigail continued on, “He went huntin’. Left about an hour or so ago.” She looked back down at her son, who started to stir and wiggle in her lap.

“I’m afraid that ain’t possible, ma’am. Charles went out a few hours ago alone. Told John and me himself,” Lenny chirped from the far corner of the cabin. Arthur hadn’t noticed him after he walked through the cabin door but, then again, he had gone straight towards Abigail in an attempt to find the man in question.

It seemed to dawn on Arthur first what had actually happened to John. His teeth began to grind together viciously as he balled up his fist. He had run away. Again. Arthur emitted a low grumble and told Lenny to notify Dutch he was leaving, immediately.

Lenny nodded quickly and sharply, avoiding Arthur’s look of pure rage. He stumbled out of the man’s path and looked over at Abigail knowingly. She sighed quietly to herself and shook her head lightly at Lenny. John was in for some hell.

Arthur launched like hungry wolf after a fawn. He stomped out of the cabin, slamming the door with a bone-rattling growl. He didn’t give a damn if he startled the whole camp.

(Though, he may feel a little pang of guilt if he ended up waking Jack from his slumber.)

Anger twisted his stomach in knots, just the feeling he had wanted a few minutes before had now been coursing through his veins like snake venom.

“That son of a bitch!” Arthur yelled with fury, lava bubbling in his belly while he roared. He threw the cigarette into the snow, unhitched his horse, and slid onto the saddle with ease. Arthur spotted prints of horse hooves in the snow, leading towards a mountain and hoped they belonged to John’s mare. With a click of his tongue and a kick of his heel, the horse galloped through the snow at a hasty speed.

Arthur could have sworn he heard Dutch calling after him with a worrisome tone, but it could have been is overworked mind. Maybe his mind also instilled an image of Hosea, a hand resting on his hip and a hand over his face in dismay over Arthur’s rash actions.

 

_Maybe._

 

* * *

 

Almería had been fostering long, steady gallops for God knows how long and there were still no real signs of John. His horse’s tracks faded the farther Arthur travelled up the mountain, so he began to rely on his own intuition. Arthur may have still been seething with anger, but a small sliver of his conscious reminded him of something he wished he had forgotten.

It nagged at the back of his skull, like a fly buzzing anxiously into his ear. That miniscule part of his brain ached and had good reason to. See, there were 3 facts his memory had stored in that sliver. Saved for later. For reminiscing.

Fact one: Arthur’s face would flush violently whenever John teased him. It didn’t matter if the boy’s anecdote was clever or dumbfounding; Arthur always seemed to react the same way. Every damn time.

Fact two: Arthur’s skin would physically _burn_ whenever their hands touched. The first time this occurred, Pearson had announced that his venison stew was done cooking. One by one, each outlaw reached for their own respective bowl. _Shockingly,_ John and Arthur had reached for the same bowl. The boy’s fingers lingered over the back of Arthur’s hand. At first, Arthur thought he had burned himself until his body ignited his fire-kissed skin at John’s apology.

Fact three: John’s ludicrous laugh made Arthur’s spine tingle. Somedays, the faintest giggle escaped John’s lips, others he would guffaw loudly. On both occasions, Arthur always felt his legs turn to jelly and a spark in his back.

He wanted desperately to forget these well-known laws that he hated so, but nothing was ever that easy. It never was with John.

His horse, Almería, huffed and came to a slower pace as she noticed the sun falling quickly behind the horizon. Arthur was drawn from out of his thoughts and grumbled at Almería’s sighting.

“Come on, girl. Just a little further,” he whispered softly to the mare, stroking her mane gently. She whimpered tiredly, but obliged.

Relief fell onto Arthur’s expression as he spotted a small nook in the mountain, resembling a cave. He kicked lightly at his horse as it trotted into their new campgrounds. Arthur hitched Almería farther back into the cave-like space so she would keep warm. He quickly began to unpack all he had on his horse, which wasn’t much.

Thankfully, Arthur had packed his bedroll by some miracle and laid it out on the uneven stone floor. Dry sticks littered the ground of the nook and Arthur gathered every last one, struck a match on the wall, and lit the fire.

Before the sun had completely set, he had put together a mediocre camp himself. Arthur’s pride over his little spread quickly morphed into exhaustion as he slumped against the nook’s wall. The temperature had dropped rapidly as expected and the wind howled outside of the enclosure.

Arthur reached into his satchel and pulled out a small sum of hardened jerky. He gnawed on the stale piece as an attempt to trick his growling stomach. As he worked on the jerky, Arthur pulled out his journal and it fell open to the page.

 

 _John’s_ page.

 

The outlaw couldn’t stop himself from tracing a weary finger over the messy cursive. His gut knotted together tightly and Arthur felt a sudden longing for John’s calm voice to be there alongside him, rambling joyfully. The glow from the fire casted a shadow from Arthur’s finger and it loomed over the words _mad at me._

He swallowed thickly and closed his journal. Sleep haunted Arthur’s eyelids, threatening them to close. He slid cautiously onto his bedroll and fell into a light doze, dreaming of venison stew and John Marston’s burning fingers.


	2. The Unforgiving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He felt the familiar wooden bend of a bow in his hand. Steadied on the target, he pulled back the arrow and released. The rabbit squealed but then fell silent. The arrow pierced clean through one of it’s honey-glazed eyes.
> 
> _or_ , Chapter 2.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have finally chosen to dig the second chapter for this out of my google docs. 
> 
> so, by all means enjoy this because it may take me a while to polish this chapter (editing will be done after i wake up in a few hours) and start chapter 3.
> 
> welcome to short chapters because the author is tired!

Arthur, surprisingly, did not have a restless night. 

 

Normally, he tosses and turns for hours on end. He was one of the more lucky ones of the camp, actually. Hosea is the primary victim of insomnia; Arthur can’t remember a time when Hosea has actually closed his eyes. Dutch, though, could catch a few hours the quickest out of the gang. Even Jack couldn’t settle down as promptly as their leader. 

 

Arthur also seemed to have a dream. He hadn’t experienced one since he was a young boy. The vision was that of a clearing by a river. Longhorn fawns and bucks scampered across the waters. Rabbits darted through Arthur’s view, running to lush bushes. He felt the familiar wooden bend of a bow in his hand. Steadied on the target, he pulled back the arrow and released. The rabbit squealed but then fell silent. The arrow pierced clean through one of it’s honey-glazed eyes.

 

He suddenly became very aware of the chilling air blowing through the cave. Arthur groaned and reluctantly pulled himself upwards. He could see there wasn’t much wind kicking up loose snow, which was helpful. Arthur turned to Almería, who had sat down on the stone floor. Her eyes were droopy and huffed upon seeing Arthur awake.

 

“Alright, girl,” he said, standing up, “we gotta go catch ourselves a John Marston.” Almería slowly rose to her feet and shook her head. 

 

Arthur knelt down and began to roll up his bedroll as tightly as he could manage. As he stood up to load up his horse, he heard running. It wasn’t human and it wasn’t frantic. The sound was rhythmic, padded feet stomping through the snow. There was a single howl as the noise grew louder.

  
  


Goddamn wolves. 

  
  


Almería bustled about in fear and neighed. Arthur calmly tied up his bedroll to her back and stroked her mane. The wolves howled and yelled as they bounded in their direction. Arthur continued to coo his horse and reached for his shotgun. The noise of the pack became frighteningly loud until the wolves could be heard running past. He exhaled and stroked Almería for a few moments.

 

Whatever their prey was, they were dead set on it. 

 

Arthur sighed and got to work quickly packing up his makeshift camp. Finally, he slipped his journal safely into his satchel and fed Almería an apple. He then placed his foot in a stirrup and hoisted himself over the horse. Arthur gently kicked his heel against the horse’s side as they trotted out of the cave. The cold air whistled through his ears; Almería fell into a steady gallop. 

 

Arthur’s stomach gurgled with hunger. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the stale jerky to chew on. The flavor only made his stomach feel more empty. Arthur tugged on the reigns harder and Almería neighed in disagreement. He sighed and patted her neck. The horse seemed less agitated, but only a few moments later bucked Arthur into the snow.

 

He grumbled angrily and rocked himself upwards. The horse started jumping up and down frantically as Arthur tried to calm her. Every movement brought a sharp pain in his spine. He walked in front of Almería in an attempt to get her back on track. His eyes widened when he noticed.

 

A horse lay in the snow; deep red snow surrounded the body. The front leg appeared broken with warm blood still bubbling from it. The belly was gutted and deep scratches littered the horse’s face. 

 

What struck Arthur was how familiar it seemed. All horses looked similar, he assumed. But the horse’s pattern made something ache in his temples. Footprints lead away from the horse’s carcass and farther into the vast mountain. Only a madman would try and run from wolves.

 

It clicked in his mind. This was  _ John _ ’s horse, those were  _ his  _ footprints, and  _ John  _ was the wolves’ prey. Arthur spit his now bland jerky into the snow and slid his shotgun onto his back. He struck Almería’s thigh quickly and she sped off. Arthur tracked the footprints and nearly stumbled off the edge in his haste. 

 

The news started to sink in: John was running from wolves. The same wolves that brutally murdered his horse. Arthur’s chest felt heavy and his throat felt dry. Cold wind threatened to blow him off the mountain, but he clung closely to the stone wall. 

 

Arthur couldn’t feel his ears or face anymore as he looked up. Small ridges acted like steps that led farther up the mountain. He sighed and felt the urge to slump onto the ground and sleep. Suddenly, he heard a shrill scream cut through the silent whistling of the wind.

 

A rush of adrenaline pumped through Arthur as he yelled to the sky, “Marston! Ya there boy?” 

 

There was no response. 

 

He felt ansty; his heartbeat racing quicker every moment with anticipation. Deciding the person who was hopefully John couldn’t hear him, Arthur hoisted himself over the first ridge. He yelled again, this time more frantic.

 

No response.

 

Arthur grumbled and gripped the stone edge. He pulled himself up and reached a landing. There was someone coughing and sputtering something fierce nearby. 

 

“John?” He called again, shoulders beginning to slump in defeat. 

 

For all Arthur knew, he was about to see a goddamn O’Driscoll bleeding to death. They could be armed; trying to bullshit him into a trap. Arthur’s paranoia got the best of him. His hand rested on his shotgun’s handle.

 

Arthur was greeted with a drop down into a pile of snow. He stopped just short of falling off the modest cliff and steadied himself on the edge. The outlaw settled on his knee and looked down at a man with greasy and frozen strands of hair.

 

“Well if it ain’t John fucking Marston.” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you know how this site works, i shoukd hope. 
> 
> kudos, comments, bookmarks are all very much appreciated.

**Author's Note:**

> ad astra actually means “to the stars.” i picked it up in a fictional revolutionary war book and liked the sound of it. it’ll make a bit for sense (hopefully) as the story progresses. 
> 
>  
> 
> now say something nice and build my ego.


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